Last Call
by SilverCascade
Summary: The Woman finds out about the great detective's death. Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock/Irene, angst. One-shot.


**A/N:** _Sherlock/Irene (Sherene) is one of my favourite pairings in Sherlock, and this was an idea that came to mind a while back; Irene's reaction to the Reichenbach Fall. This was such fun to write but a bitch to edit, and thanks to my first ever beta, Adri, for making it a little less painful. Okay, on with the story! :)  
-_

"Miss Adler, there's someone on the phone for you." Kate's voice came through the door, followed by a tentative knock.

"A minute please," called the Woman, slipping on her chemise and winking at the webcam. She heard the satisfied groan of yet another happy customer as she turned, shutting the lid of the laptop, and trusted that payment would be in her account before the sun rose. Her scarlet lips curled into a smile – online clients using the magic of the Internet had been her pretty assistant's greatest idea yet. All, (well, _most_) of the fun and all of the wealth of the job with none of the danger, of which she had most certainly had enough. For the moment at least, the quiet life alongside her subordinate was all Irene Adler desired.

Thinking about Kate, whom Irene knew waited outside diligently, sent a warm rush through her body. _A sweet girl, and fiery one under the sheets too._ Irene contained a chuckle as she thought to the fun they'd had just last night.

"Come in sweetie," she purred, leaning back into the plush pillows on her bed, twirling the riding crop between her slim fingers.

Kate burst in and immediately put the phone into her dominant's hand, sliding back out of the room without a word. Irene's eyebrows shot up, more curious than concerned – something had evidently surprised the girl, as it wasn't like her to arrive and leave without so much as a kiss on the cheek.

"Yes?" she asked, pressing the plastic to her ear.

"How have you been, Miss Adler?" questioned a smooth, composed voice. The woman's eyes widened as the silken notes struck a chord in her memory, a fragment of her past hurled into the present. The Iceman had found her once again.

"Mister Holmes," she said calmly, though her heart pounded against her ribcage, and the familiar taste of fear lay on her tongue. "What a not-so-pleasant surprise... I thought we had an arrangement, unless you're calling for my services, of course."

"I wouldn't disturb you unless it was important, but this is a matter that concerns us both." Mycroft's voice turned graver with each word.

"What could possibly concern both you and I that turns you so serious, Iceman?" she teased, examining her red talons under the angelic lamplight. "Your brother may be our common denominator, but I thought you allowed him and I to pass the time with our 'silly little games' and do as we pleased."

"Well, this may be the one time he's not playing along." Something in the government official's voice made Irene reconsider retorting with a cutting remark. He almost sounded sorry, and perhaps even a tad upset.

"I did not know you cared for him so," she drawled in amusement, sitting up, the silk nightgown pooling around her long legs. "Perhaps the Iceman is melting."

"Miss Adler, I suggest you watch the news." He paused, hesitant, but then said, "Sherlock cared about you. You were different to him, smart, and he liked that."

"Cared?" she repeated, her stomach dropping. Irene stopped listening, her idle hand scrabbling at the bed sheets in search of the remote control, a rising panic in her heart. She should have known from the second Mycroft called that something was wrong. _He wouldn't call if he were going to arrest me_, she thought, clicking on the TV. _But what's happened to Sherlock?_

_**…and now we turn to the exclusive news story of the one and only consultant detective, the great Sherlock Holmes, who turned out to be nothing more than a fraud, an ordinary man with a sick obsession to be seen as a hero…**_

Irene gasped and turned away from the perfectly preened presenters. Sherlock,_ her _Sherlock_, _had been a perfect imperfection in her life.

"What have you done?" she hissed, afraid to turn back to the screen to the images on the screen, though the monotonous drone of the newscaster echoed through the room.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, and Irene froze as the line went dead, phone slipping from her grasp. Hands trembling, she forced herself to keep watching.

Sherlock Holmes, the incredible online phenomenon helping the police for the past few years turned out to be a fraud. All is revealed in the week's papers – Mr. Holmes created the crimes to a degree in which only he could solve them, leading the police and even his closest friends to believe him a genius. Though no official statement has been given from Doctor John Watson, a war veteran from Afghanistan and Mr. Holmes' flatmate, other external sources state they doubted Holmes' integrity the all along…

_My Sherlock, a fraud?_ Irene's eyes widened. _Impossible!_

"Sherlock's a genius," she said aloud, and the thought replayed in the back of her mind as if drilling the fact back into her head. "After all, Irene, he got you." A sad smile played at the corners of her mouth, and she saw once again why she had loved him; it was his astounding mind. _The press are idiots. Why is Mycroft so upset? His brother's fall seems like just the type of thing to get him off…_

The woman sighed, slightly relieved, and continued to watch. They could lie about him all they wanted, but as long as he was in good health, she didn't mind. After all, Sherlock didn't care what people thought of him. He worked because he wanted to, because had to put that brilliant mind of his to some use.

_**…Richard Brook has in fact admitted to being an actor hired by the "detective" to play the role of Moriarty, an evil mastermind. Brook's statement to the press revealed his conscience made him come clean. There never was a "James Moriarty" and the revelation of these facts is startling…**_

_More lies,_ concluded Irene, shaking her head in disapproval. She had met the man himself, James Moriarty; he had been a man who had also tugged at her heartstrings, his genius the only other to ignite her affections. But his heart was dark, blacker than coal, and his sanity a fragile tower, liable to crumble at any moment; for that reason she had stayed away. She could get into enough trouble herself; she did not need anybody's help, except perhaps to slip out of harm's way. Turning her attention to the news again, the falseness of the words caused her to roll her eyes. _My God, these people will say anything for money._

_**…and what many presume to be the reason why Holmes threw himself off of the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, London. The suicide was witnessed by Doctor Watson and…**_

Irene stopped, lips parting in horror as she stared on at the images on the glowing screen, unable to avert her fixed gaze. Emotions crossed her face one after another; shock, disbelief, horror before finally buckling under the crushing weight of anguish. The images displayed did not aid her shattered heart. She watched the transitioning pictures of her bloody love, his head smashed into the pavement; a bubble of sorrow left her lips in a moan of despair. The Woman took in a shuddering breath and composed herself; after all, what good was mourning the passing of someone who didn't get attached to others, who didn't even feel?

She pulled back the silken sheets and found the cold metal toys she used in her work, and picking up a light-coloured, monogrammed handkerchief, Irene began to clean them. Her hands shook as they ran over the stubs and clamps, and her usually steady pace was disrupted by longer pauses where she would stop and stare at the screen. Continuing to work as the thoughts buzzed in her head and the feelings crushed her insides, she couldn't bring herself to turn off the news.

The Woman moved onto the leather, the rough caress of the dark material a familiar comfort in a room that suddenly seemed ominous. But try as she might to concentrate, she could not, and ended up repeating the same hand movements over and over again, polishing the same spot five, perhaps six times, the thoughts running crazy inside her throbbing head.

_It can't be true, it simply can't...Sherlock cannot be dead!_ Irene had always thought that no one could kill the great Sherlock Holmes and it still seemed that way, even after seeing the evidence before her eyes; he would outwit them far before they could even plan his demise.

No one could kill him but himself.

_Why?_ she questioned, stopping suddenly, throwing the toys aside. She gave in for a moment, swallowed by the feeling as her head fell into her hands, dark curls breaking free of their bonds as she struggled to hold steady her shaking body. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, and many minutes dragged past before she realised she was crying; the tears fell freely from her eyes, streaks of mascara trailing down her face as she silently wept, shrouded in disbelief.

"Why…why?" she cried, doubled over and clutching at her stomach, emotional pain suddenly turning physical. The one man she ever loved who didn't want her… but she had always thought she would win him over. He had saved her life, so he simply had to feel something, she reasoned, or else he wouldn't have bothered.

Now she wouldn't ever get the chance to show him what she could do, to hold him in her arms with nothing between them... she choked back another cry and lay back, wiping the tears from her eyes in black streaks, closing them to shut out the world. If she hadn't seen the pictures for herself, she would not have believed it... If Mycroft hadn't called, if she hadn't invested so much feeling in him, she would be free from this crippling despair...

_No._

Sherlock never cared what others said of him, so he wouldn't have done what they said he did. He knew what he had gotten into, going public as a detective after retrieving the stunning Turner painting. Unless...

His words fell out of her memory, a sudden tumble of sound in the back of her head. _I took your pulse._ That's how he had gotten her, revealing the one thing about herself she couldn't hide. He hadn't faked her case, that much she knew, but the others he had solved…the sheer volume of cases he had solved was overwhelming, and keeping up to date with the Doctor's log had seemed like a good idea at the time, though now the overwhelming feeling of heaviness and uncertainty countered the decision.

"No," she said, more firmly this time. Moriarty had a strange, twisted obsession with Sherlock's mind - he must have done something to push him over the edge; Irene did not doubt that amongst the genius lay a trace of madness. _Just like him. Moriarty. Richard Brook._ The name sent shivers down her spine, and she knew something was not right. "Falls of the Reichenbach," she murmured, and the painting held all the significance she needed.

Moriarty had been involved in the scandal; he spoke of the painting with such a passion when working alongside her; it could not simply be a coincidence that it was the case with which Sherlock had gained his fame. But what did it matter? Sherlock was still dead. The tears pricked at her eyes again, threatening to fall, before a sudden realization dawned, and she sat up, eyes glittering. _Richard Brook… Reichenbach. Oh, Jim, it seems the German classes paid off._

He was a clever one, knowing how to manipulate not one, but both of the Holmes brothers as well as anyone else who stood in his path. Irene realized it had been blessing that he chose to help instead of hinder that all that time ago, as he could have crushed her like the insect she was, tangled in the web of two great, spidery, minds.

The dominatrix shivered as the ghost of a past longing crossed her body. Moriarty was a great man, but Sherlock was better, and no matter what he did, he would have a special place in her heart.

_**...Richard Brook had, however, gone missing, and is unable to shed any light on the situation...**_

_Moriarty, missing? Oh, oh my!_ Irene's finely arched brows shot up in surprise. _He's playing them at their own game._ Her eyes shone with fresh tears.

"Kate! Kate, come here." Her assistant burst in, doe-eyes large and feigning innocence, as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn't have been. _Listening in, most likely. I envy that naive curiosity._

"Are you alright?" she asked, concerned. Irene nodded and pulled the girl into a quick hug. Kate, although surprised, returned the rare burst of equal affection.

"I need you to fetch me my writing stationary and lipstick," she ordered, affectionately striking Kate's pale arm with the riding crop. "And Kate, I love you."

"And I you, Mistress." Kate smiled and strode away, a spring in her step. Irene smiled weakly, the tears falling again, though this time they were saturated with relief.

"Mister Holmes, you've gotten me and my heart again," she said, reaching into the chest of drawers beside her bed and pulling out her new phone, the shiny jewel-encrusted case glinting in the dull light. He was far too clever for his own good, and she shook her head through the blurry vision, dark hair curling around her face as her scarlet lips curved into a smile. She tapped out her message and hit "Send", and the silent message shot out of her phone and through the air.

**You're not dead.**

**-IA**

Barely a moment passed before a reply pinged back.

**Obviously.**

**-SH**

Her heart thudded in her chest as she gazed at the white words on the dark screen in disbelief, glowing pixels imprinting on her mind. Irene's wit snapped back, and she coolly typed her reply.

**Let's have dinner.**

**-IA**

**It's 12pm.**

**-SH**

The Woman offered her final suggestion, an ace the lonely detective could not decline without a good reason.

**Let's have lunch, then.**

**-IA**

Waiting with bated breath, she shivered when the phone buzzed against her soft, trembling palms.

**Very well. Be ready in an hour – I will arrange a cab.**

**-SH**

She smiled slyly, impressed by his ruthlessness as well as his intellect. Keeping his brother in the dark was a cruel manoeuvre, if a necessary one. The sole thought, the only thought, danced in her head, and a wave of light-headedness overcame her. The woman stretched out a hand against the bedpost and called for her assistant.

Kate waltzed in, graceful as ever, and placed the stationary on the dresser. She asked her mistress what the matter was, concern etched into her tone. Irene shook her head, unable to keep her rich lips from curling up in delight.

"Get my make-up chest, love," she murmured. "There's been a change of plan." The dark-locked man whose piercing stare had once puzzled over her currently occupied her thoughts. "I'm going out tonight." Kate fetched the elegant trunk and laid it on the bed, unpacking and leaning over the poised woman; she began applying the make-up in smooth strokes, light hand barely brushing her lover's skin. She worked in silence, and suddenly the question piped up from her lips.

"Who are you going to see?" Kate asked, eyes brimming with curiosity.

Irene smiled again, shattering the image of the ivory-skinned mannequin. "The great Sherlock Holmes."

She almost dropped the lipstick in surprise. "But you said-"

"Oh, Kate." Irene leaned in and kissed the girl on the cheek, leaving behind a light rose tint the shape of her pursed mouth. "Listen."

She proceeded to tell the tale as the eager young girl styled her mistress' hair, winding dark locks around the pins and securing them in place. She ran her lithe fingers through Irene's shining tresses. "But what will you do, where will you go? You can't exactly waltz through Trafalgar Square in the company of a dead man."

Irene found that so long as she could see him, her Sherlock, again, she did not mind if they spent the afternoon on a grimy beach or a cluttered warehouse.

"I don't suppose you think he'll cook?" she chuckled; Kate laughed, raising her eyebrows.

"He might surprise you."

The redhead barely picked up on her mistress' words, a mumble and a smile. "Doesn't he always?"  
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**A/N:**_ I hope you enjoyed that, and please let me know what you thought of it - reviews are motivational and constructive criticism is great. This is my first fic for the fandom and characterization was something I worried about a lot before publishing this. If you thought it worthy, you could favourite it too. Thanks for reading :3_


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